Silver Age
Azure space is aflame up above. The man is so adamant he gives up his former ways,
as his uttering is seasoned by the lack of
deeds.
A darling,
dearest, and
dead branch of a tangerine tree reminds him of a new year.
Its leaves are the food now. The food for domestic rabbits, guinea pigs, and determined hamsters, whose circle of plastic reinforces the meaning of life.
They smell.
They smell because they need to communicate;
and the tangerine branch’s leaves serve as a fuel for the future sounds.
For the first time he gives up contention.
he was too
like
a desolate
grove, loving pleasures and living fast and unthinking.
Sing, friend, to the bloody guitar, and let your fingers blame this drunken enchantment. For his burdensome sins, for his wrong acts, for his lack of belief in the grace, lay him down naked and plain, under the white roses and sour toads to pass away.
Like the sky goes with birds,
and the ground goes with snow when the winter is around,
(I too waited for it for so long)
like words go with lips,
like water goes with dry lips,
like a line goes with linear spheres,
and like tangerine dead branches go with mouths of hungry leporidaes,
we are getting along.
